The Boy King
by erunyauve
Summary: *Complete* Tolkien eventually decided that Gil-galad was the son of Orodreth, but told us little about his childhood and early days as King. How would it differ from the story as told in The Silmarillion?
1. Ghosts

Author's Notes: This came out of the need to make a timeline of Gil-galad's early life for a couple of cameo appearances in another story. Tolkien's final decision regarding Gil-galad's parentage made him the son of Orodreth, who became the son of Angrod. This would alter what little is told about Gil-galad's early history. There would be no reason to send him to Círdan after Fingon became High King, as Gil-galad would not be his heir - Turgon, Finrod and Orodreth would all have prior claim. I have used 445 as his birth year, as this seems to be a generally accepted date, and allows him to be quite young (ten, or about four years old) when the Dagor Bragollach occurs, but also makes him sixty-one (or twenty-two-ish) when he becomes High King.  
  
_The War of the Jewels_, 'The Later Quenta Silmarillion', (p. 242, pub. Houghton Mifflin) has some details about Gil-galad not found elsewhere. Here, he is the son of Finrod by a Sinda of Eglarest named Meril. This is fairly close to Tolkien's final word on the subject in _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor', in which Gil-galad's mother is an unnamed _'Sindarin lady of the North'_ (p. 350, pub. Houghton Mifflin). 'North', I think, probably implies Mithrim. In this tale it is further related that he 'escaped and eventually came to Sirion's Mouth' - what he escaped, presumably, was the sack of Nargothrond. I've combined details from the various tales here, sending him to Círdan after the fall of the Falas, as his fostering by Círdan is a part of the original conception I thought should be kept.  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion, who I needed briefly in another story and I figured would he serve equally well here. Translations of Elvish and additional notes are at the end of the story.  
  


**Ghosts **

FA 512, Arvernien  
  
Though he had not seen her since she was but a child, the ancient elf could not fail to recognize the golden hair glinting in the sunlight. He hailed Idril as she walked about the camp, offering encouragement to raise the spirits of her people. *1  
  
She hurried toward the mariner. "Círdan! It is good to see you again. Eärendil," she called to a small, golden-haired shadow hiding behind his mother. "This is Círdan, the greatest shipwright, of whom Voronwë has told you."  
  
Two luminous blue eyes looked up at the elf.  
  
"Once he is over his shyness, you will not easily be rid of him," Idril promised, smiling at her son. She sobered. "Where might I find my kinsman?"  
  
Círdan looked toward the harbor. "He will be yonder, not yet ashore. I will watch the young one, if you like."  
  
Idril extracted the boy from her skirts and gently pushed him toward the grey-haired elf. "Go with Círdan, now, _Mírenya_." *2  
  
She walked swiftly toward the harbor and crossed the gangplank to the boat. The shining white deck was hot under her bare feet, and she ducked down the stairs to the hold with relief. When her eyes had adjusted to the cool darkness, she found herself under curious scrutiny.  
  
"You are him who I seek, for you are a dark-haired version of your father," Idril said.  
  
"I must confess I have no memory of you, my lady." The elf turned up the lamp to give them a better light.  
  
She laughed. "You would not - I last saw your father when he was hardly older than you are now. I am Idril, daughter of Turgon."  
  
He grasped her hands. "I have heard much of you. I wish we met under happier circumstances."  
  
Shadow passed over her blue-grey eyes. "Still I am blessed, for my son and my husband are with me and whole. Others lost much more. But for my father I shall yet shed some tears."  
  
He turned away from her then, understanding the import of her words. He had not been prepared for this to come to him. A gentle hand on his arm restored his awareness of his kinswoman.  
  
"I am sorry. You have lost your father, and my mind wanders to self-pity."  
  
"You would not be a worthy king if you were not frightened. It is much to ask of one so young," Idril reassured him.  
  
A once-great family had fallen. Three of Fëanor's sons remained, forever dispossessed, more so after their fell deeds in Doriath. Fingolfin and his sons had perished; so too the sons and grandson of Finarfin. In his short life, this had happened - Ereinion alone remained of the male line of succession. Recent history did not foretell his longevity. *3  
  
"This, then, must go to you."  
  
He found his arms intolerably heavy as he took the delicate circlet. From Fingolfin it had passed to Fingon, and the remainder of Fingon's men who fled the Nirnaeth Arnoediad with the _Gondolindrim_ had given it to Turgon. Into Tuor's hands the King commended his crown as they parted, bidding him to bring it safely to his dead cousin's young grandson. *4  
  
Ereinion supposed he must go to shore, must speak with the refugees. At Círdan's behest only had he come to the Havens. When he at last disembarked, he was overwhelmed by his memories - of other refugees, of ghosts who never came to the Havens. In the faces of the Gondolindrim he saw his mother, an innocent felled by a Doom pronounced for crimes against her own people. He saw his father, Finarfin's lone ally, persuaded nonetheless to join the rebellion only out of love for his own father and Finrod. He saw his sister, like himself born long after the rebellion, doomed from birth by the fault of her ancestors.  
  
** FA 497, Balar**  
  
"These are all who came to mouth of Sirion, _híren_, though it is thought some went north to Doriath." *5  
  
With a shock, Ereinion recognized his father's people, hardly a handful of the great kingdom. Desperately he sought his mother and sister, or news of them. Of his father, none could tell - he had led forth an army from Nargothrond to meet Morgoth's forces, and these refugees - mostly women and children - were the few who escaped the palace when the enemy attacked. Neither his mother nor sister was among them. He still kept hope, however, that they had fled to Doriath. His mother was a Sinda, and there would be welcomed.  
  
One name he heard repeatedly: Túrin, a man he would soon learn to curse, as did many of the refugees. Other tidings trickled in slowly, of the utter rout of his father's army, and later of the death of his sister. Never did he learn of his mother's fate, but Círdan's messengers soon confirmed she had not been among those to reach Doriath.  
  
Bitterly he regretted that he had not returned to join his father; was he not of age now, and free to choose his path? In anger, he turned on the elf who had fostered him these many years.  
  
"And ye would have gone to your grave as did your father," Círdan answered, understanding the grief behind the anger. *6  
  
"Then what is left to me? For one by one we perish. The Doom cannot be avoided."  
  
"The Doom lies heavy on your people, but Ulmo does not forget them." Close in the counsels of the Lord of the Waters, Círdan knew that Turgon had sealed his own fate, and that of his city. Still, he had faith, for the star of hope would soon arise in Gondolin. "Your people are not without hope," the mariner added cryptically. 'At least, if I do not lose the High King's heir,' he thought to himself.  
  
** FA 512, Arvernien**  
  
He felt utterly drained when he returned to Círdan's ship that evening. The sorrow and fear of the people he had seen weighed on him. As a fellow elf, he felt sympathy; as their King, and somehow responsible for them, he felt overwhelmed. In spite of their tremendous losses and the hardship and peril of their escape, the Gondolindrim were less stunned than they might have been. Idril had been as a light before them, bringing hope to their darkest hour. Still, Ereinion had never seen so many needy people.  
  
In the hold of Círdan's ship the circlet remained where he had gingerly placed it, telling himself that the Gondolindrim needed no reminder now of their lost King. Indeed, many years would pass before he could wear the delicate headpiece, and still more before it would be comfortable on his head.  
  
Círdan sat in his cramped quarters below deck, musing on the events of the day, or perhaps communing with Ulmo or Ossë - it was often hard to tell what occupied the ancient mariner's mind. Roused by Ereinion's return, he invited the young elf to leave the doorway and sit at the table; he had already eaten, but a meal of bread and cheese awaited the High King.  
  
Ereinion picked at the food, too nervous and upset to eat. Finally, he pushed aside the remainder, apologizing for his poor appetite. They sat in silence for a while; Círdan knew well the moods of the elf he had fostered, and let him come to words when he was ready.  
  
When Ereinion at last spoke, his words came in a torrent, as though a dam had broken in his heart. "I know nothing of ruling a people; I am too young to bear this crown. It should go to someone else."  
  
"To Maedhros, perhaps?" Círdan suggested gently, anticipating the other elf's wince. "Good - then we are of a mind on that, at any rate. There are none who can take this burden from you, and none should."  
  
Ereinion left his seat to pace nervously. Finding the space for this activity insufficient, he rested near a porthole, leaning his head against the cool glass. "I should go elsewhere. I will bring the enemy upon us if I stay."  
  
"Is that what worries ye?"  
  
"No - yes, a little."  
  
"'Tis no shame to be frightened, not when there is good reason. Ulmo is yet strong here, and the enemy has not yet found a way to swim. We shall be safe at Balar awhile, I think. Perhaps just long enough," he mused.  
  
"What do you foresee?" Círdan made no answer, deep in his thoughts. "Círdan, you knew what would befall my father, and told me nothing of it. What more do you hide from me that I should know?" His soft voice rose querulously.  
  
The mariner stood, fixing steely eyes on his charge. "Young elf, such knowledge as I am given is not for all ears. You know well why I could not tell you. You could not have saved your kin. 'Tis not yet your time - your destiny lies in other battles. Then will your people need you."  
  
He went to his fosterling, who was again fruitlessly trying to pace in the small space. The elf's innocent eyes betrayed his misery. Círdan stilled him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go now. Ye shall be better for sleep in the morning."  
  


**~~~**

  
He woke suddenly, and hastened to light a candle, chasing the shadows that lingered in his mind. Many years had passed since this nightmare of his childhood had troubled him. He supposed it came now out of his unquiet mind, but he was nonetheless unnerved. Glinting in the candlelight lay the circlet, glaring at him. 'Ada, you never told me this would happen; you never told me how I was to do this.' Yet, how could the father teach the son when the father doubted his own ability to rule?  
  
** FA 457, Nargothrond**  
  
"_Ereinion! Man bresta le?_" Meril gathered the sweaty, shivering elf-child into her arms. *7  
  
"_Ada!_" was all she could make out of his hysterical tears. *8  
  
"He is at Minas Tirith, but he will send for us soon, when it is safe," she soothed, misunderstanding her son. This only upset him more.  
  
"_Ada, drego!_" *9  
  
"Shhh, it is only a dream."  
  
"Is all not well?" Finrod looked in on them, wakened by the crying child.  
  
"I am sorry, Ingoldo, if we disturbed you. He had a bad dream."  
  
The elf came into the room and sat down on the bed. The little one, plainly still upset, peeked over his mother's shoulder at his kinsman. "Ingoldo, who is Sauron?" *10  
  
The adults exchanged glances. "He is no one you need worry about, Ereinion. He is far from here," Finrod told the elf-child, stroking his damp, tangled tresses. He took the boy from his mother's arms and began to sing. Before long peaceful dreams had returned to the youngster, for few children of elves or men could resist Finrod's lullaby.  
  
In the corridor, Finrod paused. "I apologize. It seems some of my people have been telling him tales not fit for a young elf." The culprit was one of his cousins, Finrod suspected, but said nothing of this.  
  
Meril was disturbed. "Do you think Orodreth is in danger?"  
  
"If it will ease your mind, I will send a party north tomorrow."  
  
She looked at the Noldo gratefully. "I wish he were here. If it is too dangerous for my children and me to be with him, then perhaps it is not worth holding our home."  
  
Finrod privately believed this to be true. The pass was part of Nargothrond's security, but its position was so tenuous, with Fingon beleaguered to the west and Dorthonion lost to the east, that it might be better to join the strength of their peoples here at Nargothrond. Yet, he understood also his brother-son's determination. Orodreth was a gentle soul, with little taste for war. To abandon Minas Tirith would be an affront to his honor, a confirmation of the doubts of his kin.  
  
Her son's recurring nightmares did not lessen Meril's anxiety in the coming days, and almost with relief did she greet the early return of the elves sent to Tol Sirion. Though they brought grim tidings - Minas Tirith was lost - they brought also reassurance of her husband's escape. Orodreth's terrified household and guard soon followed, carrying little else, as though they had left without time to take even food or warm clothing. Last came Orodreth, a haunted look in his eyes, his youthful face haggard and strained.  
  


**~~~**

  
Plainly, he did not wish to discuss the horrors he had fled in front of his son and daughter, nor would either child willingly take leave of their father. Ereinion struggled to remain awake, but at last slept in his father's arms. "Finduilas, please take your brother to bed," Meril urged.  
  
Somewhat petulant at her mother's veiled implication that she, though nigh on fifty and old enough to earn the attentions of several lords in Finrod's house, was being sent to bed as well, Finduilas nonetheless did as she was told. She sensed her mother would have little patience for argument this evening. Her father was here with them, and unharmed, at least in body - that was what they had all wished for, but much had been lost. Her home, at least, and that brought tears to her eyes.  
  
"Findas," her brother murmured, his exhaustion apparent in this babyhood name for his sister, "why are you crying?"  
  
The elf-maid brushed her hand across her eyes and lifted her brother up to his bed. "I am only happy that Ada is with us again," she evaded, taking a comb from her own hair to untangle her brother's hair. "Honestly, one would think you were a _Morben_, the way you go about," she continued lightly. He let her braid his smoothed tresses without complaint; usually this was accomplished with much wriggling on his part and many sharp words from Meril's handmaiden, only for the braid to be undone before the morning meal was cleared away. When she was done, she found herself the subject of bright grey eyes, huge and solemn in the little elf's face. *11  
  
"Who is Sauron?"  
  
Finduilas recaptured her golden locks with her comb as she considered her answer. Her brother needed no more nightmares, but clearly, he would not be put off by the adults' elusive responses. She climbed up on the high bed and sat next to her brother. "Do you remember when Grandfather took us to Menegroth?" She was not certain he would - he had been but nine years old.  
  
"The palace of the tall elf?"  
  
"Yes, indeed. That was Thingol, the King of the Sindar. Do you remember his wife, Melian?" The little elf thought for a moment, then nodded again. "She was a Maia. The Maiar are like the Valar, only not so powerful. They can do great magic, and they can also do terrible things with their magic, if they turn to evil. Melian is good, but there are some Maiar who are very bad, and Sauron is one of them."  
  
The elf-child was quiet for a moment. "I saw him in my dreams. He was looking for me. He did not hurt Ada and the others because he was looking for me."  
  
"Ereinion, it was only a nightmare. Sauron is not concerned about a little elf-child." Finduilas kissed her brother's worried brow. "It has been a long day, and you are very tired." She slipped off the bed and tucked the covers around him, noting with some amusement that his fingers had already begun to undo his braid.  
  


**~~~**

  
Meril awoke to a room dimly lit by candlelight. Her husband sat at the small secretary, intending to write but evidently failing. Carried away by his thoughts, he jumped slightly under his wife's touch.  
  
"I failed."  
  
"What more could you have done? You brought our people safely here, and you are safe. Sauron may have the tower."  
  
"Others will not see it so."  
  
"You throw away sleep lightly if you brood over the opinion of Fëanor's sons." Meril kissed him. "Come to bed, _melethen_. Your son will give you no quarter for rest the morrow." *12  
  
His father had been much altered by the loss of Tol Sirion. Stung by criticism, he henceforth distrusted his judgment. The oppressive terror that had chased his people from their land might have lingered with him also, for he had endured longest under the shadow. In the chaos and hysteria, he had overcome his own instinct to flee and remained until he was certain that all of his household and guard had gone. Only then had he left, and so he had abandoned not a single elf to death or thralldom.  
  
"There are many ways to be brave," Finrod told his brother's young grandson. "When one is wise and steady while others are swayed by emotion, that is bravery. There is courage in one who ignores the censure of those more reckless and impulsive, and clings to the wisdom of prudence. Remember this, Ereinion, and you will be called greater than your ancestors."  
  
Yet, in the end the wisdom Finrod so admired in his brother-son had failed Orodreth, who put his trust in a foolish and proud man.  
  
** FA 512, Arvernien**  
  
Ereinion had now met the cousin of that man, and reminded himself with difficulty that it was unfair to judge the mortal by his kin. Indeed, he would not wish to be likewise judged, for he certainly had his own unfortunate relations. He had already noted that since word had spread of his ascent to High King, many of the _Iathrim_ he had come to know in Arvernien saw him with new eyes. He was no longer the young fosterling of Círdan, but a symbol of the clan that had brought the Sindar to ruin. *13  
  
'And our own people, as well,' he thought, surprised that his childhood memories could still arouse such pain. He recalled yet another proud man who had come to Nargothrond, another of the line of Bëor, who led Finrod into the very clutches of the Maia who had befouled Tol Sirion. He had come to believe that this heartbreak lay behind the nightmares of his childhood.  
  
Beren, he knew, was not responsible for all that had followed his descent into the madness of love. By no fault of his own, the mortal had entangled himself in a web of familial betrayal - two great families of the Eldar destroyed by lust for Fëanor's cursed jewels. And thus had Finrod fallen, less by his love for the Edain than by his own cousins' treachery.  
  
** FA 466, Nargothrond**  
  
"Their designs are more foul than we even suspect, melethen. I cannot rein them in."  
  
"Then I can best help you here, Orodreth. Not in Eglarest. Not fleeing as though you had already conceded Ingoldo's throne to them."  
  
Ereinion jumped. Finduilas had come up behind him in the passageway, and now held her finger to her lips. Their mother's sharp voice had roused her, too, from her sleep.  
  
"I will not be sent away like a child. What befalls you shall befall me, or do the promises of our bond mean nothing to you?"  
  
"You know that is not so! But my heart warns me that should the devices of my kinsmen succeed, our very lives are threatened."  
  
The little elf looked up at his sister questioningly. Finduilas shook her head. She understood no more than did he.  
  
"And you? Do you not see the threat to yourself?"  
  
"Would you have me abandon Ingoldo's trust? It is not enough that he is deserted by the people who owe him their loyalty?" An edge of strain had crept into his father's soft voice. "I would have you and our children safe."  
  
A shadow grew larger as it neared the doorway and Finduilas took her brother's hand and pulled him away. In Ereinion's bedchamber, she settled the elf-child into bed just as her mother walked in. "Finduilas, we are leaving for Eglarest tonight. Prepare your things, and make haste. Ereinion, you must get dressed."  
  
"_Naneth!_ What has happened?" Finduilas questioned. *14  
  
"I cannot explain just now. Please, do as I say." She wiped a stray tear from her cheek.  
  
Guilin's long years of loyalty to Angrod bound his family now to Angrod's son. Amid his kinsmen's treachery, Orodreth turned to the elf-lord's son as one of the few he could trust to bring his beloved wife and children safely to Eglarest. "Follow the Ringwil and then skirt the forest. If you are approached do not stop," he told Gwindor. He turned to Ereinion and lifted him up to his horse. "My heart tells me we shall not be too long parted. Perhaps even by spring we shall again be a family, and Ingoldo will return from his quest with great tales to tell."  
  
** FA 466, Eglarest**  
  
Ereinion was taciturn over breakfast, thinking of the long grey months of that winter. In Eglarest they had settled with his mother's kin. Gwindor tarried longer than he should, knowing his lord had need of him, but unable to leave his lord's daughter.  
  
"Will you bind yourself to him?" Ereinion asked his sister one day, as they walked along the chalky cliffs high above the sea.  
  
She laughed. "I do not know. I am fond of him, but I do not yet wish to make such a choice." In truth, she enjoyed too much the attentions of her suitors. Though she was especially fond of Gwindor, she would have the freedom of her maidenhood awhile.  
  
Meril's kin were not originally of Eglarest, but had fled there during the Dagor Bragollach from their ancient holdings near Lake Mithrim. They were a dour people, reserved and not disposed to welcome strange folk, who unfortunately included Meril's son and daughter.  
  
"It was not always so," she confided to her children. "When the fell creatures of the enemy arose in Beleriand, the Mithrim were hard-pressed, and learned to live in secrecy. They endured much hardship before the Noldor came." The Exiles had saved them from certain extinction, but at a price; their scattered and independent lords such as Meril's father had ceded control of their lands to Fingolfin. Her marriage had been an arranged one, made in the hopes of restoring some status to her family, but as sometimes happens, convenience had blossomed into genuine love and affection between husband and wife.  
  
The Mithrim had little to do with the Falathrim among whom they had settled, but Ereinion spent much time wandering the docks under his sister's watchful eye - both Noldor felt more welcome among the fishermen and shipbuilders than they did among their mother's kin. Círdan they knew, for he had been occasionally persuaded to leave his beloved sea to visit Finrod, with whom he had great friendship.  
  
The ancient elf was troubled by all he heard of the tumult at Nargothrond and particularly by the quest of Beren and Finrod. His friend, he sensed, would not return. He was troubled also by the young Noldo. Upon the elf-child a heavy doom lay, and the dreams that upset his sleep carried portents even Ulmo could not interpret.  
  
Orodreth's intuition proved both right and very wrong. In the stirring of spring, Gwindor came again with the welcome news that Orodreth bid their return to Nargothrond. Yet, tearfully he related the sad fate of their beloved kinsman. Their sorrow overshadowed their eagerly anticipated reunion, and they found the halls of Nargothrond somber, as if some of their light had been lost forever with the death of Finrod. The people of Nargothrond hardly knew, then, that the faithless deeds of Curufin and Celegorm would reach so far, setting in motion the very ruin of Beleriand; that by such deeds the little elf-child would grow to be named High King of a defeated people.  
  
** FA 512, Arvernien**  
  
Círdan saw that he had been wrong. His own breakfast soon finished, for it was not his habit to linger when work awaited him, he noted that Ereinion picked listlessly at his food, absorbed in his thoughts. The elf had not slept well. ''T'will be better when we are back on Balar,' the mariner hoped. His ward was too haunted by his memories, his family's tragic end, to be of much use here.  
  
His ward…Círdan chastised himself. He had to change his own ideation. Ereinion was no longer his fosterling, had not been for a decade, even if he still looked to him for guidance. Grave was the onus cast upon the young elf, and so Círdan must not permit the youngster to remain in the twilight between elven childhood and full adulthood. Ereinion's turn to lead and guide had come, and he must do so, even if he had not the confidence or experience he should have had.  
  
** FA 512, Balar**  
  
The lapping of the surf against the shore was soothing in a mind-numbing way. Ereinion stood barefoot in the wet sand, letting the water wash over his feet. He and Círdan had talked long into the night. The ancient elf still held closely his knowledge of things to come, as was his wont, but he had revealed that the hope of the elves rested in the little community in Arvernien, and so its protection was crucial.  
  
He must speak to Celebrimbor, who had become the nominal leader of those who had escaped Nargothrond, and to Arphenion, Fingon's acerbic steward, who held sway among the surviving Noldor who had sought the Falas when Dorthonion and later Hithlum fell. He must speak to Tuor. Círdan had pressed these errands upon him; he must assume some responsibility for his people, forge bonds between the Noldor now settled in disparate communities in Arvernien and on Balar. He must offer friendship to Celeborn, in the hopes of reconciliation between the Iathrim and Noldor - they could scarce afford division in these times.  
  
His was a rule without a realm; there hardly remained any of his people. He had no idea what this new status required of him. If the Noldor were to have a future as a separate and strong people, he must win their loyalty, unite them under his authority as their King. They were not ill disposed to follow him, even if they might harbor doubts about his youth, but if they were to follow, he must lead, and the path he walked was obscure.  
  
His people despaired. All of their realms had been lost, their numbers so reduced they could only await the next stroke of Morgoth. They had fled one refuge after another. Their only hope lay in the Valar, but Valinor had closed its ears to their cries of distress. And the High King had no idea what he was meant to do.  
  


* * *

  
1 Though he had not seen her since she was but a child   

    I'm thinking of the Mereth Aderthad, in FA 21. According to the 'Annals of Aman' in _Morgoth's Ring_, the Doom of the Noldor was pronounced some 38 years prior to the rising of the Sun, and the crossing of the Helcaraxë took about 30 years. This seems a little ridiculous to me (even more that they spent some nine years in the Valar-forsaken wilderness debating the issue). I've interpreted the final five years in the Annals to be in years of the sun.   
  

2 _Mírenya_   

    My jewel (Q) - Eärendil's mother-name is _Ardamírë_, Jewel of the World (Q)   
  

3 Ereinion   

    The names of Gil-galad are a story in themselves. Ereinion (meaning 'Scion of Kings') has an obscure origin - it was used by Christopher Tolkien in _The Silmarillion_, but came originally from 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' (_The Peoples of Middle-Earth_). It is never clear how he acquired the name, only that it was not used later. I have supposed that it was his mother-name, as his father-name was Rodnor (Artanáro in Quenya). However, it is also told in 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' that his mother called him Gil-galad, an epessë (nickname) meaning either 'starlight' (according to _The War of the Jewels_, in which he was named thus for his bright eyes) or 'star radiance'. The latter explanation comes from a second and slightly different account in 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor', stating that he was named for the device on his shield. This seems to me to be a name that would be acquired some time after he became King, and not a name given by his mother, and that is the reason I have used Ereinion in this story.   
  

4 _Gondolindrim_   

    People of Gondolin   
  

5 _híren_   

    my lord   
  

6 ye   

    'ye', I'm aware, is the plural form of 'you' - I'm using it more for the sound of the word rather than its meaning. Círdan and his people had a distinctly different dialect of Sindarin, and I wanted to give his character a bit of that flavor.   
  

7 "_Ereinion! Man bresta le?_"   

    "Ereinion! What troubles you?" - I'm assuming that _presta_ would be lenited following the interrogative pronoun _man_, as it functions as the subject of the sentence.   
  

8 "_Ada!_"   

    "Daddy!"   
  

9 "_Ada, drego!_"   

    "Daddy, flee!"   
  

10 Ingoldo   

    Finrod - Ingoldo, meaning 'The Noldo' was a name of honor used by those who loved him. (ref. _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor')   
  

11 _Morben_   

    One of the Avari or an Easterling   
  

12 _melethen_   

    my love   
  

13 _Iathrim_   

    People of Doriath   
  

14 _Naneth_   

    Mother 
  



	2. Hope

Author's Notes: Re-upload 10/07 with minor html coding changes (I forgot to code the accents - yes, I am anal retentive - my real life job involves checking other people's work for errors).   
  
Regarding the name Ereinion, I had assumed the name to be Sindarin due to its _-ion_ ending. Quenya, however, has the same ending. In both languages the general word for king is _aran_, but it differs in the plural: Quenya _arani_, Sindarin _erain_. So how do we get to _erein_? There are two possible explanations: one is that Tolkien changed his mind about the umlaut of _a_ in the last syllable. Earlier entries in _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies' show the _a_ =) _ei_ plural - _adar_ as _edeir_, for example, but revised entries show the later ending - _aran_ is correctly pluralized as _erain_. This need not have preceded Tolkien's invention of the name 'Ereinion'. Thus, the name might simply use an old Sindarin form, not unlikely in the flux of the language in the First Age (in fact, when the Noldor arrived, it is likely that the i-umlaut of the plural was used only by the Mithrim: _aran_ + _-ion_ would likely come out as _erenion_). Northern Sindarin must have heavily influenced mature Sindarin, as shown both by grammatical similarity and historical circumstance - it was the first dialect to be met by the Noldor, and was the dialect of most of the Sindar who lived in their lands. By Gil-galad's birth, something akin to mature Sindarin had probably developed, but perhaps the _ei_ to _ai_ shift had not yet occurred, or the name blended his mother's Mithrim dialect with the modern form. (ref. Helge Fauskanger, move.to/ardalambion, 'Ilkorin' and 'Sindarin - The Noble Tongue' and Richard Derdzinski, www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm, 'Northern Dialect of Sindarin')  
  
The second possibility is that Tolkien simply preferred the sound of 'Ereinion' over 'Erainion'. _ei_ sounds like English _ai_ in 'rain'; _ai_ sounds like English _eye_ in 'eye' (the opposite of what a native English-speaking reader would expect). Thus, 'Ereinion' is properly pronounced e-**rane**-ion. When in doubt, it seems best to go with the more pleasing sound, as Tolkien's elves generally opted for phonological harmony over grammatical correctness.  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion, who I needed briefly in another story and I figured would he serve equally well here. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin, unless otherwise noted) and additional notes are at the end of the story.  
  


**Hope**  
  


_" _Estel_ we call it, that is 'trust'. It is not defeated by the ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our nature and first being. If we are indeed the _Eruhin_, the Children of the One, then He will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by any Enemy, not even by ourselves."_ - Finrod, _Morgoth's Ring_, 'Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth', p 320, pub. Houghton Mifflin  
  
**FA 474, Brithombar**  
  
From Cuiviénen to the shores of Belegaer, he had served the Valar. Among the first to approach and trust Oromë, at the bidding of Ossë he forsook his heart's desire, to join his grandfather's people and live in the light of the Two Trees in the land of the Valar. [1] This fate, to serve the Vala he most loved, he accepted when that path was closed to him, perhaps forever.  
  
Now Círdan felt betrayed by the Powers. What terrible deed had the Falathrim done to bring the malice of the Enemy upon them? Why must his people cry unnumbered tears when they had neither forsaken the Valar nor sought the cursed jewels of Fëanor? "Are the _Bali_ now so consumed with retribution that they have not thought for their faithful servants?" he demanded of Ulmo. [2]  
  
Such impertinent words might have angered the Lord of the Waters, but the Vala, too, questioned the Powers in Valinor. In vain had he pled with them for mercy on the innocent _Heceldi_. [3] Now, the fires of the Falas burning bright behind the ships of the Falathrim, he spoke with sorrow. "Nówë, _Eruchén i vellwain nin_, Valinor sees not the suffering of the elves. [4] Let not thy trust fail thee - take thy people to Balar, and there be sheltered from the Malice, and an apprentice will I send thee. Beyond the shadowy seas shall this apprentice pass, that he might bring thy sorrows before the Valar."  
  
It was not in the mariner's nature to brood; his grief would serve neither his people nor Ulmo's purpose. His own doom, though he knew it not, would hold many more losses and a great deal more pain. Love and duty bound him for all time to his people, to the Sea, and to the Vala of the Deeps. Still, his love would ask of him more than sorrow, and some deeds he would perform on behalf of his kindred would bring more joy than sacrifice.  
  
**FA 475, Nargothrond**  
  
Meril pushed the covers aside, cold swirling around her ankles as her feet touched the floor. She soon saw the reason - the low fires could not compete with the cold drifting through the open door to the passageway.  
  
Orodreth held his fingers to his lips as she entered Ereinion's bedchamber. She was relieved to see her son's eyes calm in their glassy sleep, his mind restful as he explored his elven dreamscape. Orodreth tucked the covers around the sleeping child and made no sound as he joined his wife outside, gingerly closing the door behind him.  
  
"Another nightmare?" Meril questioned in a low voice.  
  
"No, he sleeps soundly tonight. I sat with him for a time, and I do not think he will be disturbed." In Orodreth's tense expression, however, Meril sensed more left untold. They returned to their own chambers, and the elf rubbed his hands. "But it is cold in here."  
  
"That is your own fault, _hervenn vuin_," Meril chided, "for you left the door wide open." [5]  
  
"Did I?" he answered, preoccupied. He sat in a chair near the fire and hung the kettle to boil.  
  
"It would be warmer in bed, _melethen_." [6]  
  
He did not answer for a moment. "I am not sleepy," he answered finally, as her words finally broke into his thoughts.  
  
Meril sighed and kissed her husband's golden head. "Ai, you are hopelessly thick-headed at times." She sat in the chair beside him, pulling a warm rug over their laps. "What troubles you so that it keeps you from your wife's bed?"  
  
"Something unwholesome haunts that room, Meril," Orodreth replied finally.  
  
"It is gone?" she asked, alarmed.  
  
"It is. I was able to drive it away - it does not have the strength it once had, but it bides its time, it heals itself. It will not remain powerless forever."  
  
Rather than press him to explain his riddles, Meril left the cozy warmth to take the kettle from the fire. Returning with the tea, she settled herself again, patiently waiting.  
  
"I begin to reconsider Melian's advice. Mayhap it would be best to send the child away," he continued at last.  
  
"You have told me nothing of this," Meril said in surprise and no little anger.  
  
"I did not think it necessary - my heart would not heed her message."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"I see the danger, melethen. He is only a small boy. He knows this thing only in his nightmares, but I have stood in its shadow, and it is real." He stroked her hair absently as his thoughts led him unwillingly to their unhappy conclusion. "This fate that has been given to him I understand not, but it is a heavy one and we can ignore it no longer. Melian's words prove true - he is not safe here."  
  
"He is just a little boy. Whatever fate may await him, he is now just a little boy," Meril reminded him, dismayed.  
  
"He is a little boy whose dreams are haunted by Morgoth's most evil servant. Think you that a Maia fears a little boy without reason?" Orodreth questioned.  
  
"And where do you think to send him that is safe? Beleriand lies in ruin. He has as much protection here as any other place. Here, with his family," Meril said firmly.  
  
Orodreth did not answer immediately. Were it within his means, he would take his family away from this place. Even in the wastes of Araman, when still a young elf, he saw the suit against Morgoth to be without hope, doomed as Námo foretold. Nargothrond could not stand forever. 'Ai, Fingolfin, you were right to despair!' he thought. He was a king now, however, and he must save Nargothrond or perish with it. "Balar," he answered finally. "There is an enchantment there, it is said, for of it came the isle that brought the Quendi to Aman. Even Sauron cannot cross those waters, for Ossë protects it well." [7]  
  
Meril rose from her seat, her eyes dark with anguish. She had borne their children in a time of peace, but that peace came to ashes on the slopes of Dorthonion when their son was hardly more than a toddler. Recalling the upheaval of her youth, before the Noldor drove Morgoth's goblins from the shores of Lake Mithrim, she was loathe to allow the will of the Enemy to disturb her own house. Yet, once again they must be separated, perhaps forever. She took her husband's hands. "Tell me, that you see no other way. Tell me, that we endanger him by keeping him near to us, and I will submit."  
  
Her answer came in Orodreth's long silence. "Else I fear not only for him, but for what may be."  
  
**FA 512, Balar**  
  
The forge comforted him, recalling the simpler days of his childhood. Ereinion perched on a stool at Celebrimbor's worktable, transfixed by the Fëanorian's skillful hands.  
  
"You have the loyalty of the people of Nargothrond - you are your father's heir," Celebrimbor said, pausing after he poured the molten copper into a mold. He looked up and met Ereinion's eyes. "I do not presume to take your place among them," he said earnestly.  
  
Ereinion understood; the other elf worried lest he perceive that Celebrimbor had usurped his rightful place among his father's people. "You mistake me. You brought them to safety, and when first you arrived, I could not have led them. I was too young."  
  
'And it was too painful to be near them,' he thought. For a time he sat in silence while his kinsman held raw gems to the light, his well-trained eye selecting the one best suited to the cut he needed. Strong hands, yet of infinite delicate control. He was reminded, oddly, of his grandfather, of the gentle hands of iron that had held him when he was tiny.  
  
"Celebrimbor, what am I to do?" he broke his silence. "These people are not at fault. They followed their lords out of loyalty, or love. Nearly all Finwë's house has perished, yet the Doom will not leave us. Perhaps the Noldor are meant to have no more kings of our house. What have we brought them but loss and suffering?" The young elf looked at him plaintively through the brilliant blue-grey eyes of their patriarch.  
  
The son of Curufin knew well such remorse. His grandfather's line had been proud, once, the name of Fëanor revered, not cursed. Celebrimbor longed to restore his house to its former glory, to make amends for the wrongs his forebears - that he himself - had done. Likewise must young Ereinion set to right what had gone horribly awry. Through pride and recklessness had the princes of the Noldor led their people into sorrow, slavery and death. Small wonder that the new High King doubted his fitness to be so named.  
  
He set his work aside and moved a chair to sit before Ereinion. "We are of the first families of the Eldar, Artanáro. To rule is in our very blood." He squeezed his kinsman's hands. "All they want from you is hope. And perhaps, now that the crown has passed to an innocent, the Valar may have pity on us all."  
  
**FA 476, Balar**  
  
The pot-bellied stove wheezed out a heat that nearly took the damp chill off the air. Had those gathered before it been mortal, the damp might have raised some complaint, but it did not greatly distress the two elves. Nonetheless, they had drawn the bench close to the stove, to sit as near as they might to the warmth.  
  
Since they had come to Balar the Falathrim had forsaken their beloved craft of shipbuilding, for they must have shelter; they must build quays on the island and at the mouth of the Sirion. The needs of his people, as they reconstructed their lives as best they could, had so preoccupied their lord that he still had no home of his own. This he did not particularly regret, for he lived on his ship, within the sea that so enchanted him and near to the Vala he loved. Now the young elf had come into his care, he must think of making a home. He considered this with a glance at the little Noldorin prince, who sat on the far end of the bench, bent over his lessons.  
  
Ereinion ignored his attention, feigning indifference also to the mariner's songs and tales of the Falathrim. Círdan thought the youngster willfully withdrawn from him, and could not truly blame the child. Scarce security could he expect from his elders when cast among strangers for reasons Ereinion little understood.  
  
The elf-child worried him. 'Too quiet, too unmoved by what should interest a young mind,' he deemed. The youngster did as he was told - he worked dutifully at his lessons and learned to adjust the sails on Círdan's boat with equal aptitude - yet the ancient elf saw no spark of curiosity, no unbounded desire to know all there was to know. Unnatural, it was, in any elf, more so in a child.  
  
Nothing Círdan did would draw the young elf out of himself. It would be better, the mariner mused, to hear the young one complain. Such apathy, elves thought, came of an unhealthy mind. Moreover, separation of a child from his parents was a tremendous grief to both. Somehow, he must bring the young elf to speak of this grief, lest it consume him.  
  
Ossë, as it turned out, had his own plans for Círdan's home, and when the new year signaled that Arien had at last regained dominance in her dance with Tilion, the Maia led him to the place he had chosen. [8] Upon return to his moorings, much pleased by Ossë's selection, Círdan's sharp elven ears alerted him to a sound faint, yet anomalous to the lapping of the tide. Silent feet carried him around the breakwall, surprising one small Noldo, crying out his misery. ''Tis just the moment I have waited for, if I guess rightly,' he thought. The elf-child jumped up and tried to wipe away his tears, but Círdan caught him. "There, little one, 'tis no shame to cry."  
  
Ereinion wriggled from his grasp, his red eyes and hitching breath the only sign of his earlier distress. "I am too old to cry."  
  
"Who told ye such a thing? 'Twas not your father, for he is wiser, I know." Círdan sat down against the breakwall and beckoned to the child. "_Tolo! Pedo!_ [9] What troubles ye?"  
  
Reluctantly, the elf came to the mariner and sat, but in silence. "You are homesick, I wager," Círdan probed.  
  
A hitch in the child's breathing was the only response.  
  
"Tell me of your family. It is long since I last came to Nargothrond. How does your sister fare?"  
  
"She…not so well, _Nana_ worries for her, since Gwindor died." The elf's lip trembled. [10] "Everything is just so awful. I wish - "  
  
"What, child?"  
  
"I wish it could be again as it was." Ereinion lowered his head and a fall of tangled hair hid his face, though Círdan could see his shoulders shaking. He rubbed the child's back, which seemed to be soothing. He wished he could offer more hope to the little one, whose short life had seen such anguish. He knew in his heart, however, that more trials awaited the young elf; more trials awaited all of the Firstborn.  
  
"I cannot tell you this can be so, for ye know better. Nor can I promise that the future shall hold no more pain. 'Tis mine to keep ye from harm, for the purpose Ilúvatar has made for you, and because your parents sent ye here in love."  
  
Ereinion looked forlornly through fresh tears at the ancient elf. Could not Círdan assure him, at the least, that he might again see his home? Círdan's heart nearly broke; the elf-child's doom lay beyond even the knowledge of Ulmo, and he would not make empty promises. He could offer only his own love. "Ye are not to be bereft and alone, _tithephen_," he soothed. [11]  
  
The crying child allowed the mariner to hold him, and at last out of tears, he leaned his head against Círdan's chest with a small sigh of acceptance. Círdan stroked the little elf's silky hair, wondering at the stirring in his heart. Amid his keen awareness of Ereinion's pain, sharp as a knife to his breast, there awoke what had so long been denied him by his singular path, the twin joy and sorrow of parental affection.  
  
**FA 495, Balar**  
  
Ereinion lifted his sister in a hug.  
  
"Ai, _muindoren_, [12] you are no longer the little elf I knew!" Finduilas greeted him, laughing.  
  
He frowned. The elf-maid lacked color and her eyes had not the sparkle of days past. "And you are less than you were."  
  
"Oh, I am well enough. Do not concern yourself." They started to walk down the pier toward Círdan's home. Her eyes brightened as she looked about the busy port. "The Enemy seems so far away here."  
  
"How fare those at home?"  
  
"Oh, there is little of note to tell. _Naneth_ [13] has sent a great packet of lembas for you - she is certain that there is none to be had among this fishing folk, and that you are in great danger of starvation. She would be greatly surprised to see how you have grown," Finduilas laughed. "I think you shall be as tall as the Sindar." [14]  
  
"Well, she is right that the Falathrim cannot make it as she did. And _Adar_?" [15]  
  
"Oh, he is much occupied. He worries too much and loses sleep. Naneth thought to send him here with me, that he might rest. We still play at chess each morning, else I would hardly see him."  
  
"Is he still so terrible?"  
  
"Indeed," Finduilas giggled. "I do not think he will ever best me. He always starts out well, but he begins to doubt himself, and thenceforth comes his ruin."  
  
Ereinion stole a sideways glance at his sister, pleased to see that the sea air seemed to have already restored some of her natural color and vivacity. "The sea agrees with you, _muinthelen_." [16] They had at last reached the end of the pier, and Finduilas was puzzled, seeing no house or path. Her brother pointed westward. "_Tirio ennas!_" [17]  
  
Finduilas looked, and saw a tall lighthouse standing a league out into the sea. "And are we to swim to it like fish?"  
  
"You can if you so wish, but me, I shall make use of this boat." He stowed her baggage in a little rowboat tied to the pier. The tide was out, and the boat hardly needed the encouragement of the oars as it split the water toward the lighthouse.  
  
When they alighted at the little island on which the lighthouse stood, Finduilas looked about her in delight. "It is like a fairy story," she sighed. Ereinion did not hurry her, knowing his sister's fondness for flowers. Nargothrond was beautiful as only the Noldor and especially Finrod could make of stone, but few living things would grow in its depths. The garden that grew nearly wild around the lighthouse - save where they had pruned it back to make a picnicking lawn - was magnificent. Red _seregon_, [18] pink campion and orchids in a riot of color grew amid a tangle of mangrove trees and willows, and ivy had started the long climb up the building.  
  
Círdan's home might not be so grand as the hall Arphenion had built in the hills of Balar, but the lighthouse stood as nearly in the sea as a building might stand. In spite of its function as a guide to ships, the tower had a homely air to it. High at the top, a gallery encircled the light and mirrors of its beacon, and an elf could see far on a clear day. Leaning against the rail, Finduilas looked to the southwest, fancying that she could see the Pelóri on the horizon. "Do you think we will ever see Aman, Ereinion?" she asked wistfully.  
  
"I do not know," he answered honestly. "Such things are hidden, I think, even from Círdan."  
  
He wondered about the fate of Turgon's ships, sent forth some six years past. Círdan had doubted the fleet would reach the Blessed Land, but said only that Ulmo's designs had yet to unfold. "Hope may arise from its own wreckage," he said cryptically.  
  
Ereinion's hunger for tidings from home remained unsated, and after a meal of seafood, the siblings walked in the garden. "What tidings have you of our kinsman, Celebrimbor?"  
  
She frowned. "I see little of him; he leaves his forge but rarely. He wishes the bridge unmade. Yet he avoids Gwindor, though he is of like mind. I think he fears to ally himself against our father's judgment."  
  
"Gwindor? But how - "  
  
"He has been in Angband," Finduilas said quietly.  
  
Ereinion shuddered. "I think I would sooner die."  
  
Finduilas paused, looking out over the sea. "I believe Gwindor would have it so. He is much altered, you would not know him now." They walked on again, distress written in the elf-maid's fair features.  
  
"Is this what so troubles you that you have grown pallid and thin?" Ereinion questioned his sister gently.  
  
Finduilas plucked a blossom from a cascade of magnolias and appeared to study it intently. "My heart is troubled, yes, but for its faithlessness. I love Gwindor not as I did, and love another now more, yet the other returns not my affections."  
  
They sat down on the little lawn to watch the stars open. "Does Gwindor feel as he did when you were betrothed?" [19] her brother questioned.  
  
She nodded miserably. "Therein lies my fault."  
  
"Poor Finduilas!" He kissed his sister's cheek. "I am glad that you are here. Perhaps you may forget for a time this burden."  
  
"Yes, let us speak no more on this, muindoren."  
  
For his sister's peace of mind, he did not press further. Yet his dreams came uneasily to him that night, his mind disturbed by his sister's strange words concerning disharmony between his father and his most loyal advisors. He wondered greatly about the state of things at Nargothrond.  
  


**~~~**  
  


Finduilas would soon depart, and Círdan guessed that his ward meant to go with her. His heart warned him that the danger to Ereinion had not lessened, but he hesitated to speak with him, fearful that his affection for the young elf clouded his vision. "_Ulumo, istathan aen farn e tegi mae_," [20] he prayed, looking out over the foam-tipped waves from the gallery of the lighthouse.  
  
A flash of silver caught his eye and he turned to see Ereinion climbing the final steps to the gallery. A fine elf had taken the place of the little waif who had come to Balar. He had grown tall, after the height of his mother's people, and showed the slender build and graceful features of his father's fair clan. His hair, however, bore the mark of his guardian. Círdan's footman had at last cured the youngster of his tangles, weaving the elf's hair into a single tight braid. In the style of the Falathrim, a silver cord curled around his raven tresses, protecting them from the salt air. However much Círdan's folk loved the sea, like all elves they also loved beautiful hair, and they wrapped their braids in a variety of colorful cords and scarves against the salty air. Pride in the son he had taken into his home and heart tugged again at his resolution to consider only the best interests of his ward.  
  
"You look at me strangely," Ereinion observed, an amused smile playing on his lips.  
  
"I was only observing what a fine elf my tithephen has become."  
  
Ereinion heard the unsaid meaning. "You do not want me to return to my home."  
  
Círdan stroked his beard, considering his answer carefully. No longer a child, Ereinion had now the strength to repel the Maia who stalked him. Though Sauron remained still a shadow of himself, he would reemerge in time, and the young prince was somehow tied to his downfall, of that Círdan felt certain. He now saw that his charge could not return to Nargothrond; he felt intensely that Ereinion must not return to Nargothrond. "_Egleriannen aen Ulumo, ni si genin_," [21] he murmured.  
  
" 'Twould be a lie if I told you otherwise," he answered finally. "You have become dear to me, as a son. Yet I know you would return to your folk, and I do not blame ye. I ask, though, that you stay, though your heart yearns for your home, for there is danger awaiting ye, should you return."  
  
"And is there not for my sister and my parents? Our people?" Troubled, Ereinion sought the mariner's eyes, to see what truth lay behind his words.  
  
"That is not shown to me," Círdan evaded. "For you, only can I answer." Disaster loomed over Nargothrond, yet he knew not enough - not then - even to send warning. 'Trust in me,' he pleaded silently.  
  
Ereinion's face betrayed his turmoil. Foolish would it be to spurn the ancient elf's advice. Yet, duty called him to his father's people; love called him to his father's side. He swallowed hard. 'I put my hope in your far sight, _Odhron-veriol_,' [22] he answered in the same silent manner.  
  
Círdan released the breath he had not known he held. He prayed that his ward's trust be not misplaced. He feared Ereinion should not forgive him if his family were lost. Yet he hearkened to a greater voice, to one who loved the elves, even the seditious Noldor, and therein he placed his faith.  
  
**FA 512, Arvernien**  
  
'That I did not question Finduilas further,' Ereinion reproached himself. He stood at the rails of the ship, transfixed by the ripple of water spurned by the boat's swift travel under a strong wind. No - he had hardly come of age when his sister left Balar. Orodreth would likely have paid no more heed to his son's misgivings than he paid to Círdan's messengers, sent forth in the spring of the next year. Círdan had done all he could to save Nargothrond, and Ereinion knew now that the Lord of the Waters himself had warned against his return to the fated city.  
  
A favorite of Nienna, being like her in his patience and gentleness, Orodreth had left Valinor reluctantly, having no reason but love of his kin to forsake the Valar. Yet he fell nonetheless under the Doom of Mandos, and the Noldo despaired of any help from the West. Still shamed by his ignominious defeat at Tol Sirion, Orodreth heard the whispers of many of his people and their growing doubt in their King. Not even Meril could disarm the demons that assailed her husband's confidence.  
  
The elves were to _"become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after."_ [23] So Mandos had spoken, and Orodreth came to believe that the hope of Arda lay not in the Firstborn but in the Aftercomers. Alas, this belief - not unfounded, as would later be seen - put Nargothrond in the hands of a mortal with more pride than wisdom. Like many with dreams of glory, Túrin mistook prudence for fearfulness and regarded those who doubted him with suspicion. Thus did he discredit the wise counsel of Gwindor and persuade Celebrimbor to keep his silence; thus too were the messengers of Círdan scorned and even the Vala, whence came their warning, disregarded.  
  
Ereinion blinked, realizing that the water had stilled around the boat. He would shortly meet with Túrin's cousin. He would sooner have met with Idril, but Círdan insisted that he speak rather to her husband. "Tuor has served Ulumo faithfully, and him did Turgon choose to watch over the Gondolindrim," the mariner said firmly. High King though he might be, Ereinion recognized in his foster father's voice a tone that left no quarter for dispute.  
  
The first building of the Gondolindrim grew half-finished from the west bank of Sirion, near the harbor. The long hall would eventually serve as a gathering place, but now would provide shelter. Ereinion watched the man and elves at their work until a presence made itself known. He looked to his right and found his Peredhel kinsman at his elbow.  
  
The child was tall as no elf would be at such a young age, and his eyes had not the grey tone of the Firstborn. His ears, however, identified him as a son of Elvenkind, [24] as did his heavy silken hair, the liquid gold of his Vanyarin grandmother. The child observed him shyly until the natural curiosity of his age won over. "_Mamil_ [25] says you are now _Tar Etyangoldion_." [26]  
  
Small need had Ereinion for Quenya among the Falathrim, and though he had studied it, and recalled it from childhood, for Orodreth and Finrod spoke at times in the High Speech, he extracted the tongue from his memory with some difficulty. Ereinion crouched down to the child's height. "Yes, I suppose I am."  
  
"Can I see your boat?"  
  
Ereinion smiled at the little one's fluid change of subject. "I wait on your father, but when he is done with his work, we shall all go to the boat."  
  
Waiting, it seemed, was a skill possessed by neither child of man nor child of elf. The Peredhel hurried to his father. "_Atto!_ [27] We are going to see the King's boat!" Eärendil announced.  
  
Tuor left off his work. "Well, then, you have found another boat to explore, have you?" His steps had nearly the cat-like grace and softness of the elves as he crossed the distance between them.  
  
"Do not let me interrupt your work," Ereinion protested.  
  
"It is no matter - they will do well enough without me. What can the sons of Hador tell the Noldor of masonry?"  
  
Ereinion stiffened slightly; he had forgotten the man's kin for a moment. They walked in silence to the boat, and Eärendil soon attached himself to the ship's captain. His elders descended into the hold.  
  
"You distrust me, son of Orodreth," Tuor said, in the language with which both elf and man were more comfortable.  
  
Ereinion was startled at the man's perception. "Am I so transparent?"  
  
"That even a mortal might read your thoughts?" Tuor pressed.  
  
"I intend no offense," Ereinion answered honestly.  
  
"Then let none be taken. Trust too generously given has brought disaster upon our peoples, _Tórnë_." [28]  
  
Ereinion listened as well as he might to the man as he told of the concerns and needs of Turgon's people. He heard his words, but also studied Tuor's gestures, his expressions and listened to his tone of voice. Something in the man was familiar to him. More than familiar - comforting. He shook his head to clear it. Was he so credulous?  
  
_' "...Tórnë" '_  
  
_' "Fingon, Tórnë, i-Nargothrondrim le huilannar." '_ [29]  
  
His mother's incisive accent echoed in the reaches of his memory. "The elves who fostered you, they were of the Mithrim, no?" Ereinion interrupted.  
  
Tuor caught himself in mid-sentence, surprised. "Indeed, of the North, in the lands I am told were held once by Tôr Fingolfin."  
  
A son of the elves, Círdan had named this mortal. The man was more than his blood - though cousin to the proud and foolish Túrin, he was foster son to Annael of the Mithrim. "I am not deaf to your concerns," the elf said quickly, returning to the matter at hand.  
  
'Lest he believe me hopelessly distracted,' he added silently. Already he had found such a preconception in Fingon's steward, who clearly mistook the son for the father - his dearly missed, but too often preoccupied father. Yet, he was son also to wise Círdan. 'What my father failed to teach me, I have learnt of him,' Ereinion realized. The mariner was inextricably a part of him. He was more than the Noldor who had rashly turned their backs on the Valar and led their people into misfortune. He smiled at the deviousness of his foster father - he understood, now, why Círdan insisted that he speak with Tuor. The wily elf wished him not only to take the true measure of the man, but also to appreciate his own unique qualities.  
  
The young King spoke with new confidence, revealing what he thought might be done to help the Gondolindrim. He had perceived the visit with Celeborn as one of courtesy, but he saw now that he must ask more of Celeborn than friendship, and what alliances might be forged between Tuor's people and the _Iathrim_ [30] must be forged by the High King. "I wish to speak to Celeborn - his folk are not mine, but the well-being of your people and his people cannot be distinguished," he concluded.  
  


**~~~**  
  


Near the shore stood a house of whitewashed walls, shining white and defiant under the sun. The interior had little adornment, as might be expected in a home whose inhabitants had left most of their worldly goods to the plunder of the orcs and Easterlings, following the destructive trail of the sons of Fëanor. Here dwelt a prince of Doriath, regent on behalf of Thingol's great-granddaughter and leader of the Sindarin king's remaining people.  
  
"The Gondolindrim would benefit greatly from ties with your folk. Winter shall come too quickly for them, I deem, and they are perhaps more destitute than the Iathrim when you came hither," Ereinion explained his errand.  
  
Celeborn had come to believe that the desperate straights of the Eldar could allow for no more discord between the Noldor and Sindar. Yet the young king underestimated the depth of ill feeling among the remnant of Doriath. Toward the remaining sons of Fëanor, the Iathrim held bitter and deserved hatred, but toward all the Noldor many of Thingol's subjects held resentment. Many of the Sindar perceived the 'High-Elves', as they called themselves, to be arrogant, and Celeborn knew this perception was not wholly inaccurate.  
  
"Our peoples have spoken together informally. Many search for Sindarin kin from both lost kingdoms. Yet there be no coincidence to our meeting here at the mouth of the Sirion." Celeborn was distracted for a moment by a small, dark-haired girl who crept near to listen. "Come, Elwing, do not be shy."  
  
She was a lovely child - in her features, Ereinion thought he saw her grandmother's likeness, and her dark hair had a peculiar silvery light. Her grey eyes betrayed her mother's kinship to Celeborn, for they were alike in color and shape, and she came forth at his summons.  
  
He introduced the young Noldo to the child, who bowed her head wordlessly in greeting and retired to sit on the floor next to her kinsman, half-hidden by his robes.  
  
"She is still shocked by all that she saw and will speak only in Nandorin, her native tongue," [31] Celeborn explained.  
  
Ereinion winced in empathy, having lost his own family, though not so young - nor had he been witness to such horrors as Elwing might have seen.  
  
"We have not such defenses as you have on Balar," Celeborn continued. "Both my people and the Gondolindrim shall hardly stand an assault by the issue of Morgoth, or…others, if we cannot unite."  
  
Ereinion wondered whom 'others' might signify. [32] "Círdan's folk and my own will do all that we can to protect the Havens, but we are many leagues away."  
  
"This I fear," the Sinda confirmed. "I warn, however, that you will get little cooperation from the lords who have settled further north. I have their loyalty, but not their deference. Oropher will take up arms against any who attack us, but he has no love for the Noldor."  
  
"Nor have the Gondolindrim love for the sons of Fëanor. I see not why the Sindar cannot separate the deeds of the Fëanorians from the innocent among the Noldor," Ereinion answered irritably.  
  
"Careful, lest you commit the same crime of generalization you condemn, young king." The silver-haired elf stood. "I fear I have other duties to attend," he terminated their meeting.  
  
Ereinion stood also. "You will meet with Tuor?"  
  
Celeborn indicated his assent. They made their way to the door, little Elwing following furtively behind. As Ereinion took his leave, Celeborn spoke again. "Your father had ties to Doriath of which few knew. He corresponded in secret with my King Thingol and his lady Melian, [33] and it was upon their advice that your people lived by caution and secret until Túrin came among them.  
  
"Do not blame the son of Húrin overmuch," Celeborn continued, seeing the Noldo stir at the name. His eyes took on the far-seeing gaze Ereinion so often saw in the eyes of his foster parent. "The curse laid upon his sire by Morgoth brought your people and my king to bitter ends, yet by Húrin's silent valor did Gondolin stand just long enough. By their jewel and ours shall come the hope of both our peoples."  
  


* * *

  
[1] 'his grandfather's people'  

    It is implied in _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'Last Writings' that Círdan is nearer kin to Olwë than Elwë, making him a descendent of the former. I'm guessing that if Tolkien meant him to be a son of Olwë, he would have stated such, but given his status and his age, it does not seem unlikely that he would be a grandson. (ref. pp 385-386, pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[2] _Bali_  

    Valar (Old Sindarin). It is stated in _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'Last Writings' that the language of the Falathrim was archaic and remained so. Thus it seems likely that Falathrin lay somewhere between Common Telerin (of which we know almost nothing, but it was well-preserved in the Telerin of Aman) and mature Sindarin, which must have developed over the course of the First Age. By the early 500s mature Sindarin was probably in use through most of Beleriand (Doriath and Gondolin being the obvious exceptions), but some very important words might retain the older form, giving the Falathrim an ancient flavor to their speech.  
  

[3] _Heceldi_  

    Eldar left in Beleriand (Q). As explained by Pengolodh in _The War of the Jewels_, 'Quendi and Eldar', the language of the Valar was Valarin, but the Valar were quite fond of the languages the elves had made, and must have used Quenya in many of their debates - otherwise, we would have no record of their discussions, as few of the elves learned Valarin.  
  

[4] 'Nówë, _Eruchén i vellwain nin_'  

    'Child of Eru, who is most dear to me'. Nówë is Círdan's original name. (ref. _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'Last Writings', p 392 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[5] _hervenn vuin_  

    dear husband  
  

[6] _melethen_  

    my love  
  

[7] Even Sauron cannot cross those waters  

    With the drowning of Númenor, Sauron did cross the water, but had to relinquish his body to do so. In his battle with Lúthien, he capitulates rather than do this, because it would be the equivalent of death to him - he would remain only as a spirit. He is able to remain potent when Númenor is destroyed because his essence has been bound into the One Ring, though he can never again take bodily form. When the Ring is destroyed, his diminished spirit stays in ME - perhaps the Maiar are subject to the same immortality as the elves, and only through Mandos can a Maia whose hroa has been destroyed be rehoused. (ref. _LOTR_, 'Appendix A' p 1013 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[8] 'the new year signaled that Arien had at last regained dominance in her dance with Tilion'  

    The Elvish calendar was not precisely adjusted to the astronomical calendar, with time being added every twelve years and this adjustment omitted every third yen (144 years), so that the calendar dates of the equinoxes and solstices would stray by about eight days around the actual event. Nonetheless, as this straying seems to keep the new year fairly close to the vernal equinox, one can assume that this is intentional.  
  

[9] _Tolo! Pedo!_  

    Come! Speak!  
  

[10] _Nana_  

    Mama  
  

[11] _tithephen_  

    little one. In Old Sindarin the consonant cluster _np_ became _nph_ and then _ph_, losing the _n_; I'm guessing that in a compound word the resulting cluster of _np_ must likewise be softened to _ph_. This is somewhat attested by Tolkien's example of _arphen_, in which the liquid _r_ changes the plosive _p_ to the spirant _ph_. However, one would expect _dp_ to behave as it does in stop mutation, producing _orophen_ rather than _orodben_ - Tolkien did his best to confuse us by not following his own rules, and changing them often! In any event, this use of _pen_ should not be confused with the prefix _pen-_, as that means 'without', quite the opposite meaning of the suffix -pen, 'one' (which comes from primitive _kwén_). (ref. Helge Fauskanger, move.to/ardalambion, 'Sindarin - The Noble Tongue'; _The War of the Jewels_, 'Quendi and Eldar')  
  

[12] _muindoren_  

    my brother  
  

[13] _Naneth_  

    mother  
  

[14] 'as tall as the Sindar'  

    The Noldor are always described as the tallest and fairest and strongest and best at everything, but I choose to see the Noldorin historians as a bit biased! In any case, Thingol is stated to be the tallest of all elves, and the hobbits, surrounded by Exiles returning to Aman, note that Círdan is very tall.  
  

[15] _Adar_  

    Father  
  

[16] _muinthelen_  

    my sister  
  

[17] _Tirio ennas!_  

    Look there!  
  

[18] _seregon_  

    stonecrop (flowers, for those as horticulturally challenged as me)  
  

[19] 'Does Gwindor feel as he did when you were betrothed?'  

    According to _The War of the Jewels_, 'The Grey Annals', they were betrothed before Gwindor was captured.  
  

[20] '_Ulumo, istathan aen farn e tegi mae_'  

    'Ulmo, may I have wisdom enough to lead him well'. _Ulumo_ is a guess at how Old Sindarin might have rendered Valarin _Ulubóz_, which the elves confused with their root ULU, Common Eldarin _ulumó_, 'pourer'. The rest is mature Sindarin. (ref. _The War of the Jewels_, 'Quendi and Eldar' and _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies')  
  

[21] '_Egleriannen aen Ulumo, ni si genin_'  

    'Ulmo be praised, I now see'  
  

[22] _Odhron-veriol_  

    lit. 'protecting parent', the nearest I could come to 'Foster father'  
  

[23] _"become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after."_  

    (ref. _The Silmarillion_, p 96, pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[24] 'His ears, however, identified him as a son of Elvenkind'  

    My apologies, but I go with the Peter Jackson version here. I like those pointy ears, and Tolkien did suggest that elves' ears were _'leaf-shaped'_. (ref. _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies' p409, pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[25] _Mamil_  

    Mama (Q). Quenya was still the language of Turgon's house, though the people of Gondolin spoke Sindarin. Eärendil must have spoken it, and the years Tuor spent in Gondolin would allow more than enough time for him to learn to speak Quenya quite well, especially as his native language was Sindarin.  
  

[26] _Tar Etyangoldion_  

    King of the Exiled Noldor (Q). Any mangling of the Quenya genitive here is entirely my fault. It should be noted that the general word for king, _aran_, usually referred in specific cases to a king of a region, whereas _tar_ referred to a king of a people.  
  

[27] _Atto_  

    Daddy (Q)  
  

[28] _Tórnë_  

    My King (Ilkorin). _Tôr_ is found in _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies' (TA, TA_3_). Ilkorin, originally thought of as the language of the Sindar before the Exiles brought Noldorin to Beleriand, was not abandoned after Tolkien decided that Quenya was the language of the Exiles and that Noldorin (Sindarin) was the language of Beleriand. It appears that Tolkien later thought of Ilkorin as the dialect of the Mithrim. (ref. Helge Fauskanger, move.to/ardalambion, 'Ilkorin' and Richard Derdzinski, www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm, 'Northern Dialect of Sindarin') As for the ending _-në_, 'my', used in place of _-en_, its mature Sindarin equivalent, it appears that the Common Eldarin suffix _-njá_ produces _-në_ in Northern Sindarin.  
  

[29] "_Fingon, Tórnë, i-Nargothrondrim le huilannar._"  

    "Fingon, my King, the people of Nargothrond welcome you."  
  

[30] _Iathrim_  

    people of Doriath  
  

[31] 'She is still shocked by all that she saw and will speak only in Nandorin, her native tongue,'  

    That Nandorin might have been used in Dior's house before he came to Doriath is based on a vague rumination on the etymology of 'Elwing' in _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor'. Tolkien changed his mind (regarding the root of 'Elwing") later in _POME_, 'The Problem of _Ros_'. As she did live among the Green Elves in Ossiriand when she was very small, she may well have spoken their language. The rest is entirely my imagination, but one would think that a six year old who loses her entire family to violence would be somewhat damaged by the experience.  
  

[32] 'Ereinion wondered whom 'others' might signify'  

    I'm assuming it is not yet known that Elwing has the Silmaril.  
  

[33] 'He corresponded in secret with my King Thingol and his lady Melian'  

    (ref. _Unfinished Tales_, 'Narn i Hîn Húrin', Appendix p 160 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  



	3. Starlight

**Author's Notes:** Last chapter of this story, but I intend to continue with a sequel. My 'what if?' plot bunny got together with my slashy plot bunny, and well, I've got rabbit poop everywhere.   
  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin, unless otherwise noted) and additional notes are at the end of the story. Hopefully, I haven't screwed up the Quenya too badly.  
  


**Starlight**  
  


**530 First Age**   
  
Age had come relatively slow to the mortal, but it had come nonetheless. Grey streaked his hair; lines now appeared at the corners of his eyes. He might have passed still for a very old elf, but the truth of his mortality was mirrored in Idril's eyes whenever she looked upon her husband.   
  
"You will be missed," Ereinion said with genuine feeling.   
  
"We leave the folk of Arvernien in the hands of Eärendil and Elwing - they will soon surpass us in their deeds," Tuor predicted.   
  
Ereinion wished he shared Tuor's confidence in the Peredhil. The sea called strongly to the son of Tuor; Eärendil would not settle down willingly into the place of his parents. Nor did Elwing offer much reassurance. Ereinion sensed her distraction, that the glorious Silmaril she bore occupied her thoughts overmuch.   
  
It would be unfair and unkind to speak of his worries. Tuor's mortal life waned; little of it had been easy. The elf's heart wept for Idril's sorrow, inevitable as it seemed. To pass what time they had left to them, far from the troubles of their kindreds, he deemed paltry recompense for all they had given in the service of Gondolin and the Valar. [1]   
  
"I pray you have the forbearance of Ossë," Ereinion said instead.   
  
"Have faith, Tórnë. Keep your hope in the mercy of the Valar - they will deliver your people and mine."   
  
**534 First Age**   
  
The message arrived by way of a nervous young elf of the people of Maedhros.   
  
_'Know that we bear no ill will toward Elwing and her people. Our swiftest protection shall be at her command should the forces of our common enemy be called against the folk of Arvernien. Yet we remain bound to our oath, and will go to such lengths as we must to regain that which belongs rightfully to the sons of my father.'_   
  
Ereinion tapped the letter thoughtfully against his hand, considering the message and its warning. He did not entirely understand what the Fëanorians expected of him. He could not by force take the Silmaril from Elwing; he was not inclined, in any case, to do so on behalf of the Kinslayers and thus see his fate and conscience joined to their guilt.   
  
Círdan had received his own missive, of much the same content. Ereinion laid the letters side by side, both written in a somewhat clumsy script. The Noldo guessed it to be the hand of Maedhros. "What are your feelings on this?" he asked.   
  
"What are yours?" Círdan countered.   
  
Ereinion frowned. "I think they hardly matter. Elwing is not of my people, and even if she were, I would overstep my authority if I forced my judgment upon her. She must decide for herself whether the suit of Maedhros has merit."   
  
Círdan stood silent; Ereinion realized he had not given the right answer. "If she can make the decision," he said finally. He wondered if the Silmaril had come to mean more to Elwing than even her children. The walls of her house heard little laughter. Still, he could not justify taking the jewel from her.   
  
Círdan shook his head. "You think only of Elwing."   
  
The younger elf bit his lip, delving deeper. Elwing's decision must affect all the folk at Arvernien - some of whom were his own people. Now the blade turned - could he permit her to keep what might endanger those whom he had a responsibility to protect? Celeborn's words came back to him. "_By their jewel and ours shall come the hope of both our peoples_."   
  
He thought he had at last the answer Círdan sought. "It must be returned to the Valar, but Maedhros will not do this," he guessed.   
  
Círdan smiled. "A wise ruler must think always of the future, though it brings discomfort or danger to the present." His smile faded and his sea-grey eyes grew serious. "Do not underestimate the warning of this message. Maedhros will attack - ye can have certainty in that. We can only hope that we will be ready." The mariner trailed off, some far-off vision turning his thoughts away from his foster-son.   
  
Ereinion sat patiently, watching the expression on Círdan's face as it changed, and felt a stirring of fear; what the ancient elf saw upset him. At length, Círdan spoke again. "No doubt Elwing and others have also received the letters, and have their own opinions on the matter."   
  
Celeborn soon sent word of a council to discuss the fate of Elwing's Silmaril. _'I suspect you are of like mind, my kinsman, and agree that the Silmaril must be kept though it shall cost us dearly,'_ the Sindarin lord wrote. _'Therefore your presence at the council I find indispensable, as opinions on the matter here in Arvernien are divided sharply and fear too easily overwhelms reason.'_   
  


**~~~**  
  


Elves milled about the gathering hall that Tuor and the Gondolindrim had built. At one end of the room, someone had gathered a dozen or so low-backed chairs into a semi-circle before the fire, and soft-padded benches angled away from the circle toward the middle of the hall. Various lords of once-great realms had found seats in the inner circle. He found an empty chair next to Celeborn, who nodded briefly before turning again to Pengolodh on his right.   
  
Looking about the circle, his eyes came to rest on an elf he did not know, though he did not look altogether unfamiliar.   
  
"That is my cousin, Oropher, lord of the Laegrim," Celeborn told him. "And one whose support in this we are not likely to gain." [2]   
  
The elf bore a resemblance to his kinsman in his features and silver hair, but where Celeborn was elegant, Oropher was austere, cloaked in the simple garb of the Laiquendi. The elf's pale grey eyes met his for a moment, hard and unfriendly.   
  
By custom, the townspeople had the first say, and most spoke in favor of keeping the jewel. Many stared at Elwing as they spoke, and Ereinion realized that they saw not the lady but the bright jewel that hung at her neck. He could not but wonder if they should not rid themselves of this poisoned gem and the thralldom it cast upon the populace.   
  
"I will be cursed rather than see this gem in the hands of the sons of Fëanor, and defend it by all the unspeakable acts they have committed in its name," a dark-haired Sinda announced, restoring Ereinion's attention to the meeting. The elf was the last of the common folk who wished to speak, and silence fell before Galdor stood.   
  
"Vengeance cannot guide us in this. Let the Silmaril go, lest more blood be shed." The elf had followed his mother's kin into Beleriand, but the blood of Alqualondë beat ever in his Telerin heart. He would not forget what Fëanor had done to his father's people. "I have no wish to take up arms against my kindred, yet remorse will not stay the swords of the Fëanorians."   
  
"Long ago," Oropher began, "the Enemy twisted our ancestors into a creature that would kill without remorse, that would turn even on its own kind in jealousy and covetousness. You know of what I speak. Yet, what now separates the House of Fëanor from Morgoth's abomination? What evil will they not do to regain this jewel?" he asked, gesturing at the Silmaril. "It works its malice upon us even now, as we hold it beyond all reason. We have more to fear from the _Goldamir_ than the wrath of its claimants." [3]   
  
"May I be heard?" All eyes turned on the daughter of Dior. "We are foolish to give up this gem so easily. In Arvernien we have prospered; the forces of Morgoth do not trouble us. We have made a peace out of our troubles. The light of Elbereth lives in this gem, and not even the fetid brow of Morgoth could dim that light. It brings us fortune, even now." Some murmurs of agreement followed her words.   
  
"You may think so, _brennilen_, but I would urge otherwise. Naught but ill has ever come of those gems. It is said they are tainted by the Enemy, but I say they were tainted before that. I know more of this than any of you, for I have held them in my own hands. My grandfather's pride and obsession tainted them long before Morgoth took them. Let my father's brothers have it, and be done with it." [4]   
  
Oropher's eyes narrowed. He had not at first noticed the quiet Fëanorian who sat in the shadows, very likely to escape notice. Ereinion could see from the sour look on the elf-lord's face that he was not much pleased to find himself in agreement with Celebrimbor.   
  
Arphenion stood, shaking his long, dark hair behind him, as he regarded the assembly with the _lechyl_ eyes of an exiled lord of the Noldor. From the elevated heels of his boots to his opulent robes in the dark blue of Fingolfin's house, his appearance, the elf hoped, would intimidate if his words failed to do so. "That which was stolen remains stolen. The Silmaril rightfully belongs to Fëanor's descendants." [5]   
  
Celeborn refused this reasoning. "By the wicked things done by the sons of Fëanor, not least the murder of Dior, they have dispossessed themselves of any inheritance."   
  
"Or so the junior house of the Noldor would have it, for it suits them to dismiss the claims of the eldest blood."   
  
"Likewise did my father speak when the crown passed to _híredh Fingon_, Arphenion," Celebrimbor snapped, his face and voice leaving little doubt of his paternity. "Not all the Noldor see it thus." [6]   
  
"The crown was certainly never meant to pass to the Moriquendi," Arphenion countered, undaunted. "If we are to speak of evil deeds, let us not forget the shameful loss of Tol Sirion." He met the eyes of the High King without recoil.   
  
"I advise you to speak not of what you do not know," Ereinion said, a warning note in his soft voice.   
  
"I knew your father well, _aryon Artahéro_. What fortitude he lacked when a youngling in Aman, he did not find here in Beleriand. It was a bitter loss, the pass of Sirion, and the people of the North suffered much for it. _Ni á avatyarat ai i yondo aranion lá nin antaro estel_." (Forgive me if the son of kings does not give me hope.) [7, 8]   
  
Slow to anger, Ereinion felt the hot rush of blood in his cheeks as he answered the elf-lord. "Forgive me if I ask whether Fingon knew your loyalties were so easily bought. _'At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him, and he fought with Gothmog… .'_ Where, pray tell, were you when your lord fell, Arphenion?" Ereinion knew well that the dead King's steward, cut off from the main host early, had fought bravely beside the Falathrim. Yet so too had his father stood against Sauron in a battle of wills that allowed the folk of Tol Sirion to escape unmolested. [9]   
  
"Is our purpose here to discuss the Silmaril or to give the Gelydh a new audience for their quarrels?" Oropher murmured derisively.   
  
Círdan touched his foster-son's arm in a calming gesture. At this moment, he found himself in full agreement with the difficult Sinda. He cast a look upon Fingon's steward that would have given pause to the aforementioned balrog. "Arphenion, keep a civil tongue in your head. _Quetil Tarennalyava_." He looked at Ereinion expectantly. "How do ye find in this matter?" [10]   
  
The High King drew a deep breath. "We cannot but keep the Silmaril and hope that we can protect Arvernien should Maedhros prove true to his word. It belongs to the Valar, and to the Valar it must be returned. Yet all chances of this are lost should it be given to my kinsmen. We trust in Ulmo that his designs shall yet bear fruit, and the path to Valinor made straight."   
  
Both Arphenion and Oropher stood as if to speak, but Círdan held up his hand. "Dispossessed are the sons of Fëanor, of their inheritance and of the Silmarilli," Círdan intoned. "The jewel shall not be given up."   
  
Ereinion made haste to escape the hostility that still hung in the air of the hall, its tendrils snaking along his spine and clinging to his heart. He stood outside in a chill winter drizzle. He felt weary; as always when he came to the mainland, he found no rest in his dreams, and the making of enemies had proved tiring work. He closed his eyes as the rain washed the tension from his body.   
  
"Tar Etyangoldion - that is what they call you, no?"   
  
Ereinion decided that Quenya could be an exceedingly ugly tongue, particularly when spoken by a sarcastic Sinda.   
  
Before he could answer, Oropher spoke again. "Know that I hold you responsible for what shall come to pass. They are your people, your kin." The elf-lord turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving a bitter taste of resentment in the mouth of his adversary.   
  
"And yet," Ereinion murmured, "we are also kin."   
  
**538 First Age**   
  
"Go now, and rouse the guard on Balar - we follow," Círdan exhorted. Ereinion, roused from his bed by the rapid chatter of the dolphins, saw the sleek animals turn at once from the lighthouse, the gravity of their tidings evident in their swift departure. Natural gossips, the dolphins had often entertained the young Noldo with their tales, though they strayed occasionally into the scandalous and hardly credible. On this dark night, however, under a heavy cloud Ithil could not pierce, Ereinion felt their urgency. The worried frown on his foster-father's face told him something terrible had happened. "The sons of Fëanor have reached Arvernien. Already, I fear, we come too late, but we must do what we can."   
  
On Balar, the Falathrim loaded their fastest vessels for departure. Ereinion moved stiffly, unused to the mail he wore, and gripped his spear tightly, his nerves crackling with tension. In his sheltered life, his spear had pierced naught but fish. Without enthusiasm, he followed in Círdan's wake as the mariner hurried toward his ship.   
  
A voice hailed him as he reached the gangplank, and he turned to meet Celebrimbor. "I thought you should have a proper shield."   
  
The smith had overlaid the thin shell with silver, and from the silver had cut the stars of Ereinion's device, laying bare the white elven steel. Surprisingly light, the King knew it would hold strong. Therein lay the merit of the Noldorin alloy, first made by Curufin, its secrets now held by his heir. "A proper shield? Celebrimbor, this is too beautiful to carry into battle."   
  
"So long as you use it well," his kinsman smiled.   
  
Ereinion read the Tengwar inscription at the top. "Gil-galad?"   
  
"You have not heard the people call you this? For your eyes, like starlight. You are in need of an epessë. 'Ereinion' really does not suit you anymore. [11]   
  
"Come back, Artanáro," he added, laying a hand on the younger elf's cheek. "Arphenion looks only for an excuse for Maedhros to claim the crown."   
  
"But why?" The ignobility of a king without country hardly seemed worth such strife.   
  
Celebrimbor shrugged. "It is no secret that Fingon was close in friendship with Maedhros. Arphenion is restless - he wants war with Morgoth."   
  
He heard the warning in his kinsman's voice, yet there was little he could do. He needed Arphenion, and Fingon's steward knew this. The elf-lord had military experience the young King utterly lacked. Even now, suspicious as might seem his loyalties, Arphenion had raised on short notice the warriors among their people and now spoke to Círdan's captain about the landing at the Havens and how best to repel the Fëanorians.   
  
When at last they reached the mainland, the elf found he had little need for spear or shield. They had come too late. The sons of Fëanor had fled. The Silmaril had disappeared; Elwing was gone, her children taken. A tale quickly passed among the Falathrim, so garbled when it reached Ereinion that he thought of the children's game, Secrets. The daughter of Dior had dived into the sea from a second-story window - on this, all the storytellers agreed. The remainder was strange - by some accounts, Elwing had turned into a bird and flown west bearing the Silmaril.   
  
Círdan accepted this fantastic story without surprise. "Ulumo's plans now come near to their end. Either they succeed and the Bali will have mercy upon us, or they fail and all is lost."   
  
Yet now the remnant at the mouth of the Sirion must concern them. The host of Maedhros had left the Havens in ruin, and the survivors had little wish to remain in the shadow of their shattered home. The elves of Arvernien had proved a remarkable people, remaking their lives in defiance of all they had lost. Now treachery of their own kindred - not for the first time - had taken what little remained to them, and Ereinion saw despair in many faces. Anger, he saw also, particularly among the Iathrim, twice subjected to the Fëanorians' madness. Bitter words refused Círdan's invitation to remove to Balar, bitter words refused to live there with the Golodh king.   
  
Arphenion had already gathered a brigade to stop the spread of the fires, and Ereinion took charge of the rest of the Noldor to gather the wounded and do what they might for them. Among the wounded, Ereinion realized, they would have to count those too stunned and grieving to help themselves, and he saw many of these - husbands who sat unseeing, unhearing over their wives' lifeless bodies, children terrified into mute silence, hidden in every conceivable small space.   
  
Ereinion's search led him to a little house, cheerily decorated as though its inhabitants wished to put their terrible flight to Arvernien behind them. The mother lay cruelly slain in the doorway, her eyes fixed forever in an expression of disbelief. Inside he found no survivors but a small child, who came to him trustingly. He started to lead the little elf out of the house, through the garden so as to avoid the grisly horror of the front doorway, when a voice stopped him.   
  
"We'll take care of our own, _Dagwenir_. Your kind is not wanted here." Ereinion winced at the appellation; he felt the hate and pain that flowed from the other elf in waves. He wished to affirm his innocence, yet knew it would not make a difference. [12]   
  
He dropped the elf-child's hand and backed slowly away, realizing as he did so that his own distrust and fear had been aroused. The child looked after him, confused. In her pure little heart, she only knew that the elf who now abandoned her seemed less threatening than the one who took her hand firmly and led her away.   
  
In the worst of the carnage his folk met the hardy warriors of the House of the Tree. They had rounded up the wounded left behind by the sons of Fëanor and stood guard over them, less to prevent their escape than to stay the vengeance of others.   
  
"We were betrayed," Galdor said quietly. "Had they come from the north, Oropher's folk would have been upon them before they knew their danger. Had they come from the west, they would have met strong resistance, for the House of the Tree stood against them. But they came by the Fens of Sirion, the most difficult way, and so to the heart of the Havens. You could not have stopped this. The town had taken its worst even before my people could come to its aid.   
  
"They knew. We were betrayed," the elf-lord repeated, looking directly at his King.   
  
A name formed at Ereinion's lips, but he knew he could not speak it. He could not accuse without evidence. Instead, he asked casually, "But who might do so? Who would gain from such treason?"   
  
"I have my thoughts on that, and you will not like them, for he has your friendship. Yet he slew the kindred of my father at Alqualondë - think you that he can escape the Oath of his bloodline?" Galdor's expression was bitter.   
  
"You are mistaken. Do not assume that the son must be as the father."   
  
Galdor only raised his eyebrows. "What would you have done with these?" he asked, gesturing to the prisoners.   
  
"Have their wounds tended. We will take them to Balar, or let them return to their lords as they wish," Ereinion sighed, running agitated fingers through hair loosed by his rapidly fraying braid. These elves he could not hold accountable; the Silmaril was but a bauble to them. Like their victims, they were but pawns in a war they could scarcely understand, a war with meaning only to their princes and to the Powers themselves. In any event, he would not immerse his own hands in the blood of his kindred.  
  


**~~~**  
  


"You are a hard elf to find." Ereinion moved some papers from a chair in front of the desk and sat down.   
  
"I fear I am not the most popular elf on Balar at the moment," Celebrimbor said quietly, laying down his quill.   
  
"You should know…some believe you betrayed Arvernien."   
  
Celebrimbor sat up suddenly. "Artanáro, you do not believe that?"   
  
The High King looked at him steadily.   
  
"You cannot think…never would I do such a thing."   
  
"I know that. Yet the talk will continue. A scapegoat is needed and they will hold you responsible for the deeds of your house even in your innocence."   
  
Celebrimbor looked away. "Not innocent." The smith stared at his hands. "I adored my father. Everyone did - my mother, Celegorm. He was so…aloof, as though we did not matter to him, and so all the more did we crave his love. And he did love us - more than he knew, I think.   
  
"The Oath changed everything. Alqualondë - for the first time I saw how my father and his brothers were under the spell of that Oath. They were not the same elves I had known all my life. But they were not alone in their guilt. It was slay or be slain." He shuddered. "There is so much blood in an elf."   
  
Ereinion put his hand over his kinsman's trembling fingers.   
  
"I have not wielded a sword since that day."   
  
Ereinion imagined this had hardly pleased Curufin. "That is why you did not go to Tumhalad with my father." [13]   
  
"Do you resent me for that?" The elf raised his eyes to look at his kinsman.   
  
"Celebrimbor, no! You would only have met your death, as did the others." Ereinion sat back. "I have also known such regret. Círdan spoke rightly. Nothing we might have done would have changed my father's fate or that of Nargothrond. We cannot feel guilty for having lived."   
  
The older elf put his hands together, resting his chin on his fingertips as if deep in thought. "Arphenion holds his sword by both ends. Use him as you must, but do not trust him."  
  


**~~~**  
  


Few mementos had the elves of Hithlum carried away, and though the great house nestled in the hills of Balar attested to the fine stone carving and metalwork of the Noldor, its rooms had still an air of severity. The long main hall glowed with marble flooring under flickering candlelight, its thick stone walls without adornment, smooth and cold. Ereinion, refusing the escort of Arphenion's footman, found the elf-lord in that dim passage.   
  
"Arphenion!"   
  
'Tempting, to ignore that gentle voice,' Arphenion mused. Yet he could not afford such arrogance, he reminded himself. Schooling his features into a bland expression, he turned to greet his unwanted visitor. "My King?"   
  
"If I discover that you had any part in this attack," Ereinion began.   
  
Arphenion adopted a look of injury. "Do use what intelligence you have been given, lord. Was I not with you and the others when we sailed for Balar?"   
  
Ereinion did not wait for him to finish. "Any part, Arphenion. I will see to it that you will suffer as your treachery brought suffering to others."   
  
This threat he found intriguing, but it disturbed him that the young King had so easily determined the truth. Arphenion was neither fool nor martyr. True, he would prefer to see Maedhros sit in Ereinion's place. Yet the attack on Balar had only added refugees to his already full house. As long as Ereinion held the High Kingship, Arphenion could not afford to make an enemy of him - the elf's desire for power would not permit him to sever himself from its source. "Then I am glad I have no worries."   
  
The younger elf looked at him directly, his blue-grey eyes burning into Arphenion. "Know that I am watching."   
  
Perhaps, he mused, he was too quick to dismiss the son.   
  
**545 First Age**   
  
"They come! Ulumo be praised, they come!"   
  
The halls of Nargothrond faded into the varnished walls of the lighthouse as the elf awoke to a room flooded with bright sunshine. Locating his dressing gown, he slipped into it hurriedly and nearly collided with Círdan in the passage.   
  
"Come quickly, or ye shall miss them. They go north, to Nevrast."   
  
Ereinion decided not to ask who "they" might be at this early hour. He followed the usually unflappable mariner to the gallery and looked to the west. At once, he understood Círdan's excitement. Nearly too far even for his elven eyes, he saw a great fleet of white ships.   
  
"'Tis the host of Valinor," Círdan said, in a reverent whisper. Far below, Ossë splashed to the shore and Ereinion followed Círdan as the older elf hurried to have tidings of the fleet. He hung back slightly, as the Maia cast him a suspicious look; Ossë had not quite decided to trust Círdan's Noldorin foster son. He had assumed the guise of an elf this morning, though his seaweed tresses did not quite match that image.   
  
Círdan already spoke of sending a fleet of his own people to Nevrast, but Ossë discouraged him from this. "You will be needed here, for this war shall bring Beleriand itself to its knees, befouled as it is by Morgoth."   
  
The old elf nodded, disappointed. Long had seemed these years of Morgoth's domination to him. The elf had too much love for his kindred not to see much good in the return of the Noldor; in temperament and skill they had brought great joy to the curious elf. Though he grieved for his old friend Finrod, he felt richer for having known the great King, and he thanked Ulmo for the son he had not believed he would have. Yet he longed for the days of peace, when he sailed under the starlight and Morgoth's minions - what remained of them after the Valar had destroyed Utumno - did not trouble his people. The elves who had so suffered while Valinor closed its ears to their cries would not fight this battle. It had never been theirs to win. Círdan understood this, and resigned himself to waiting, patiently waiting, for that, it seemed, was his place in life.   
  
**587 First Age**   
  
Ereinion looked about his bedchamber, his belongings long ago packed and taken down to the little rowboat. Taking only what he could carry, he would leave much behind - save his memories of the lighthouse in which he had lived over a century. So much of his childhood had crumbled away, its remains left to rot among the dead. Ossë's cryptic warning had only told them to leave the island, yet Ereinion sensed a finality in Círdan's preparations, and he knew he would not see the little lighthouse again.   
  
Círdan appeared in the doorway. "I feel the same," the elf said simply. Perhaps he anticipated even greater upheaval. Henceforth, his foster-son would come into his own, would build a dwelling worthy of a King, and Círdan would once again have his solitude. He did not fear such a thing, for he had lived alone many years before the young elf had come to him. Yet it would take some getting used to, as it had taken time to adjust to another's presence.   
  
On the docks the Falathrim hurried about, readying the great ships for their final journey. For several days, they had ferried the elves on Balar to the Havens of Sirion, and now only their own folk remained. A mother searched frantically for her child, only to hear his clear voice call from the deck of one of the ships. Her lips opened in a smile that lit her face; suddenly, all she would leave behind seemed of little importance.   
  
The elves who had gone before them had erected a tent village at the Havens as they waited for the ships to bring the rest of their kindred from Balar. To the North, the tents of the Sindar lay scattered over the gentle hill leading down to the marshes of Lisgardh; west of the marshes stood perfectly ordered rows of tents erected by the Noldor. Círdan shook his head in amusement at the sight. They would never be an entirely melded people, for Ilúvatar had not made them so.   
  
A strange elf, not of Balar, met them at the gangplank. "I have come to guide you, for precious little time remains to us."   
  
Círdan realized the elf only appeared to be so. "And what may we call you, _aira sailapen_?" [14]   
  
The Maia considered this for a moment. "Hmm. You may call me _Intyanto_." His eyes twinkled as he gave this name, and Círdan found that he liked the Maia instinctively. Like many of his kind, Intyanto had rather odd ideas as to what an elf should look like, and he had assumed a _fana_ with long grey hair, not the silver of Thingol's kin, but grey, as an old man might have. The form he had taken showed the faint lines of age seen on few elves but such very old ones as Círdan himself, and he leaned on a great staff of ash. [15, 16]   
  
Ereinion watched this exchange in silence, made wary by experience.   
  
"You do not trust easily, son of Orodreth," Intyanto observed.   
  
"Trust must be earned," Ereinion answered, somewhat shocked by his insolence, but he met the Maia's keen blue eyes squarely.   
  
"The past can be a good teacher, young elf. Do not misjudge your instincts. They will serve you well." Intyanto looked to the north for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten his companions, and Ereinion looked at Círdan, wondering if they were dismissed. "Yes, well, there is little to be done this evening, though in the north they march, and much shall take place before morning, or I am not a Maia. We must leave at first light."   
  
"But where are we going? And why?"   
  
"We go northeast, as near as I can determine," Intyanto told him the next morning, finally answering one of his questions. Billows of smoke and some unwholesome cloud had shrouded the sun in Beleriand, and in truth, the Maia was not certain of his direction, only that his senses confirmed it was the right one.   
  
"But why?" the young King asked again.   
  
Intyanto shrugged. "Not all is known to me. Our allies have the Enemy sorely pressed, and what is to come will take most of his stain from the circles of the world. And if you continue to pester me with questions, young elf, we may well be caught within it," he grumbled, but Ereinion caught a hint of a smile in his eyes.   
  
The third day of the march dawned with the sky aflame, shrouded in red cloud. Círdan and the Falathrim took this as an ominous sign, for at sea it signaled storm. Urged on by Intyanto the elves had not rested, even as night turned to day and day to night again. The woods around them echoed with terrible cries; evil things lurked within, fleeing their master in his hour of defeat.   
  
The forest hid other secrets - not long after darkness fell on that third day, they passed the camp of the folk of Fëanor, who watched silent and amazed as the great company of elves marched ever northeast. Intyanto knew by this sign they had come far enough, and called a halt.   
  
"Awake, awake!"   
  
Ereinion turned over in his bedroll, deciding that whatever new disaster had come upon them, it hardly needed his aid. The voice grew insistent, and at last he sat up, his eyes still bleary from dreams of water. "Ai, Círdan, what is it?" he queried.   
  
The ancient mariner pointed to the sky. "Look to the north."   
  
There shone the Star of Eärendil, bright enough to pierce the thick clouds. Ereinion had just got his feet under him when a tremor threw both elves to the ground. Others in the camp had risen, and he heard cries of both wonder and fear as the elves reckoned with the Star of Hope and the shaking earth.   
  
Intyanto had not lost his footing, Ereinion saw, and the Maia stood still and silent, looking toward the north, his great staff in hand. He went to stand by the Maia, stumbling now and then as the earth continued to move. A great wind stirred, chasing away the noxious clouds, the stars winking again into existence in the night sky. "A new age dawns, young elf," Intyanto announced. "Melkor is brought to his knees. Come."   
  
Intyanto turned once to make certain the elves followed, and found that they did. 'Confound their soft feet,' he grumbled to himself as he hurried westward.   
  
Now Ereinion was acutely aware of the camp of the Fëanorians. "How long have they been there?" he wondered aloud.   
  
"We passed them before, they have crept nearer to us during the night, while we rested."   
  
Círdan sniffed the air. "The sea!" he said in amazement. At once he understood what had happened, and quickened his steps.   
  
Now Ereinion noticed it, too, and was certain he heard the lapping of water on the shore. "I do not remember this water, yet I am certain we came this way," he said to Intyanto.   
  
"Patience, young elf," he counseled, as they halted by the shores of the water. "We await the dawn."   
  
That looked to be not long in coming, for on the eastern horizon behind them, Anor had finally scaled the heights of the Ered Luin and a golden light reached forth, heralding her return. Moments passed, and the blinding orb flashed over Mt Dolmed, pale light seeping into the forest.   
  
Ereinion looked west again, where the sky was now an intense blue. The sea, dark beneath, seemed to have no end. "Indeed, it ends in Aman," Intyanto said gruffly, reading his thoughts. "Beleriand is no more.   
  
"You have much ahead of you," he continued. "The way to the Undying Lands shall again be open to your people, but not all shall choose that path. To some, it remains closed. Others, many of the young like you, shall remain on these shores out of choice."   
  
Other elves had crept forth in their wake, among them the people of Maedhros and Maglor. The latter stood well apart from their kindred, casting wary glances at Intyanto's great host. Yet none truly thought of retribution on that day, nor even joy and sorrow. No tongue of Beleriand could express their sense of loss, no heart could contain the swell of hope, nor any eyes put forth enough tears for their grief. The elves stood silent before the Sea, the Sea that held in its vast depths their memories, the Sea that lapped the shores of the Blessed Realm.   
  
No, words could not be made to express such exquisite feeling, but a song of regret, given voice by Maglor, rose now as the light waned. The Noldolantë, as it would be called, poured forth with all the pain and sorrow of the elves. The son of Fëanor sang and sang, and still the elves stood, even as Anor sank in fire over the western reaches of the Sea.   
  


* * *

  
[1]The elf's heart wept for Idril's sorrow, inevitable as it seemed.  

    I'm a firm believer in Tolkien's 'speculation' that they found Valinor and that Eru rewarded Tuor with Elven immortality.  
  

[2]'That is my cousin, Oropher, lord of the Laegrim'  

    A couple of lines in _LOTR_ imply that Celeborn is kin to Legolas; that Oropher was associated with the Green Elves in the First Age is possible, given his roots in Doriath and that he later becomes king of the Green Elves' eastern kindred. He was certainly not fond of the Noldor. (ref. _Unfinished Tales_, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn')  
  

[3]_Goldamir_  

    Silmaril - lit. 'Noldo-jewel (Doriathrin) (ref. _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies')  
  

[4]_brennilen_  

    my lady  
  

[5]_lechyl_  

    flaming - from the plural participle of the verb _lacha-_  
  

[6]_híredh Fingon_  

    your lord Fingon  
  

[7]_aryon Artahéro_  

    heir of Artaher (Q) - I've used Orodreth as the more familiar Sindarin name, but Tolkien changed the name late - Orodreth was first said to be altered from Sindarin Rodreth, but later the Sindarin name was changed to Arothir, from Quenya Artaher. (ref. _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 350 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[8]'_Ni á avatyarat ai i yondo aranion lá nin antaro estel_.'  

    'Forgive me if the son of kings does not give me hope.' (Q) - _Tar_ refers to a king of a people; _aran_ refers to a king of a place. Orodreth was an aran, as were Angrod and Finarfin (Arphenion would not know that Finarfin was now High King of the Noldor in Aman). _ai_, 'if' is Neo-Quenya (ref. _www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm_, 'Parma Penyane Quettaron v2.3')  
  

[9]_'At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him, and he fought with Gothmog… .'_  

    (ref. _The Silmarillion_ p 230 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[10]_Quetil Tarennalyava_  

    'You speak to your (High) King.' Q - We can suppose that Círdan might have learned Quenya from Finrod, and he seems curious enough that he would want to learn it (and independent enough that he would not give much thought to Thingol's prohibition of the language). Círdan uses Quenya here as a counter to Arphenion's wordplay.  
  

[11]'You have not heard the people call you that? For your eyes, like starlight.'  

    I've taken a sort of mixed stand on the name, 'Gil-galad'. Tolkien originally gave it the meaning 'starlight' (ref. _The Lost Road_, 'Etymologies', _The War of the Jewels_ p 242 pub. Houghton Mifflin). Here it came from _gil_, 'star' and _calad_, 'light'. _calad_ was lenited to _galad_, hence Gil-galad. In _The War of the Jewels_ it is said that his mother gave him the name _'for the brightness of his eye'_ However, a second interpretation was possible - there is a Sindarin genitive that is formed by lack of lenition and a second, related stem to KAL: GAL. Both stems mean 'shine' at their most basic meaning. Tolkien took advantage of this in his revision, creating a word not found in the Etymologies: _galad_, 'radiance'. Thus, the name came to have the meaning 'Star of Radiance' (_The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_, #347 p 426 pub. Houghton Mifflin; _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 347 pub. Houghton Mifflin). This was obviously Tolkien's last word on the subject, but I've used the earlier interpretation. The trouble with earning the name from his shield is that he didn't fight in any battles until the War of the Elves and Sauron. On the other hand, the name seemed too grown-up for a small child.  
  

[12]_Dagwenir_  

    Kinslayers - lacking a word for Kinslayers in Sindarin and Quenya, I created this word for another fic (from _dag_, to slay + _gwenyr_, kin + dîr, agential ending [the _d-_ seems to drop off after _-n_, ex. _curunír_])  
  

[13]"That is why you did not go to Tumhalad with my father."  

    Not a canon fact, but it would explain how Celebrimbor escaped the annihilation of Orodreth's army.  
  

[14]_aira sailapen_  

    holy wise one (Old Sindarin) - from _aer_, 'holy' (_ai_ usually became _ae_ in Mature Sindarin; _-a_ as the OS adjectival ending from CE _-á_) + _sael_, 'wise' + _pen_, 'one'.  
  

[15]_Intyanto_  

    guess-giver (Q) - based on Incánus, which as near as I can figure includes the root INK, 'guess'. (ref. _LOTR_ p 655 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[16]_fana_  

    physical appearance of a Maia or Vala (Q)  



End file.
